


The Coat

by LadyWhiteKoiFish



Category: The Pianist (2002)
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 15:35:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3295640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyWhiteKoiFish/pseuds/LadyWhiteKoiFish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Szpilman remembers the previous owner of his coat. Hosenfeld/Szpilman. SLASH!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Coat

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILER ALERT. One my favorite parts of the movie had always been the part where Hosenfeld gives Szpilman his coat, and then after where Szpilman almost gets mistaken for being German and shot at.  
> I do not own any thing, nor do I claim any rights to any of these characters or situations. This is a work of pure FICTION. And made by a fan of the movie with no intentions of stealing any original works or making any offense to any of these characters or etc. I make no monetary profits from this work.

People always wonder, but they never say anything. Too afraid to speak of a time that was better left not talking about. But that didn't mean they didn't whisper things. That they didn't wonder and speculate amongst themselves. Too bad for them, that they didn't know that Szpilman could still hear their whispered words as if they were shouting directly in his ear. And it made him angry. Angry that none of them had the courtesy to say what they were thinking to his face! To ask the question that they gossiped about through grape vines and over wooden fences. 

Oh well. They were just small people with small ideas anyways. They could never understand. How could they? They had never suffered through the same things as Szpilman. Sure, they felt the effects of the war, but most had been able to flee the country, able to find safe havens elsewhere. Others, like Szpilman, had no where they could run. 

The war had been over for almost a year now and there was still a long ways to go before everything was back to normal. Well, that's not exactly true. Nothing would be normal ever again, but people could try, and would. And so would Szpilman.

Each morning he would wake and try and pretend that he was okay. That everything was okay. He'd force himself to move. To work. To breath. Each morning was a struggle, slowly- oh, so very slowly -he could feel it slowly becoming less and less of a struggle. People came by his apartment to visit him often. Most with words of sorrow and pity in their eyes. 

He hated that.

They'd say how sorry they were for his loss and if there was anything they could do to help, he'd only have to ask. It was so cliché. And, quite frankly, tiring. He heard it over and over again, and he knew most people didn't really mean it, they only said it to be polite. Because society had rules and morals, and being civil and polite and courteous were a few of them, never-mind that just a year earlierpeople were being murdered in the street and sent to concentration camps where they were treated worse than livestock. No one seemed to remember civilitythen when a young Jew showed up on their doorstep needing help.

But that was all behind them now. Now was the time for grieving and rebuilding. But Szpilman was tired of grieving. He had grieved enough, in his opinion. Now he wanted to move on. To stand on his own two feet and move forward. To live the rest of his life.

But... There was something he needed to do before he could move on.

Szpilman let out a tired sigh as he moved away from the window he had just been staring out of, turning to walk back into his bedroom, his bare feet padding along the cool, wooden floor and across a few rough feeling rugs. He headed straight to his closet, navigating around his bed to do so before he grasp the handle to his closet door firmly and gave it a twist. The door opened with a slight creak, the smell of stale air and soot wafting past his nose. Szpilman shook off the smell and the memories it brought with it, instead he focused on the item he kept carefully tucked in the back of his closet, behind all the neatly hung and pressed suits and pants.

He gently tugged the faded coat free from all the other articles of clothes, smoothing out wrinkles as he turned to place the coat on the bed. This had almost become a daily ritual, and he knew that this was strange, but it brought him comfort.

...And also sadness.

Szpilman slowly ran his fingers down the coat's collar, memories as sharp as a double edged blade coming back to him.

-Memory-

Beautiful music flitted through the air, their tunes like the whispering of angel wings. Szpilman played, like he always did. And the captain sat and listened, like he always did. Szpilman and this man didn't talk much, if at all. Usually the captain would just come in, sit down and wait. Szpilman always felt nervous around him. Why wouldn't he? One wrong move and the captain could kill him.

Today was no different than any other. Szpilman played and the captain sat, with his eyes closed, and listened to the music Szpilman created. Every now and then, Szpilman would dare to look up and catch a glimpse of the other man's face. Sometimes his face would be content looking, other times he'd look sad,- dare he say, remorseful even -and other times he'd just stare blankly into space, and for a moment Szpilman would forget he was a Jew killing, German, Nazi captain and see him as just another, regular person. A person like himself, even.

He had just been in the middle of a beautiful melody, when the first bomb shook the house. Szpilman flinched, the music seeming to stutter as his fingers pulled across them awkwardly. He looked up and around, and so did the captain. The second bomb fell and the house shook again, this time more violently, causing pictures in frames to fall off walls and vases on desks to come crashing to the ground.

“Get down!” The captain hissed as he rushed over to Szpilman, pushing the younger man down and quickly under the grand piano before crawling under it himself. The two men laid side by side on their stomachs as they looked at the shaking walls around them.

“W-what's g-going on?” Szpilman dared to whisper.

“It's okay,” replied the captain, his eyes trained on the entrance that led to the hallway. “It should pass quickly.”

“Will they come here?” Szpilman asked, eyes wide and frantic as he turned his head to look at the man next to him.

“They should not.”

Szpilman stared silently at the other man for a minute, up that close Szpilman could see the other man much more clearly. He was about the same age as himself, Szpilman guessed, with handsome, unassuming looks and dirty blond hair. He did have very lovely, blue eyes and a strong jaw.

Szpilman flinched as another bomb went off, his body moving closer to the captain's as he did so, and as he felt his shoulder bump against the other man's, he was about to move when he felt a strong arm wrap around his shoulders and pull him closer.

“You will be alright Jew,” said the captain, his voice low and rough as his eyes were still focused out in front of him, his arm steady and warm around Szpilman. The only thing the young musician found that he could do was stare, wide-eyed, at the German captain. To think, a Nazi had just told him, a Jew, that he was going to be alright! And what's more strange, was that Szpilman actually believed him.

Without letting himself think too much about it, Szpilman easily slid closer to the captain, his body now practically cradled by the German, who was now looking down at him in surprise. “Are you alright?” The captain asked.

That was a stupid question to ask, thought Szpilman. Of course he wasn't all right! Every day was a constant struggle! Fight off Nazis! Fight off starvation! Fight off disease! Fight off the cold! Fight off everything for which he was ill prepared to fight off! No, he was not alright!

“Cold,” Szpilman opted to muttered, trying to bury his face more in his worn out, threadbare scarf. And before he knew it the captain had quickly removed his arm. At first Szpilman was scared that he would be hit, but then the other man just quickly went about unbuttoning his coat and opening it up so that he could drape it over Szpilman and pull him close at the same time.

“Is that any better?” The captain asked once Szpilman was once again pressed flush against the captain, the German's arm and coat wrapped tight across his back.

“I-I,” Szpilman stuttered, but whether from the cold or shock he did not know.

“Give it a moment. You will get warmer shortly.”

The captain smiled back at Szpilman, and Szpilman felt his cheeks flush with heat. The German had a very nice smile too. The bombs outside soon stopped and they waited till the rumble of trucks faded and the shouts of soldiers also dissipated before they crawled out from under the piano. And for the first time in a long time, Szpilman was warm that night.


End file.
